Born Bad Read online

  ‘He’s a grown adult and he lives there.’ She pointed through the window in the general direction of the Margulies house. ‘You want to know what he’s up to? Go knock on the door! For God’s sake, Tariq, I wish you gave the kids as much attention as you do your Jonny bloody Margulies.’ Buckling up her case with impatient, fiddling fingers. ‘You do the school run this morning. I’ve got a meeting with the police and a solicitor.’

  He looked at her askance. Wondered, just for a second, if she had a clandestine meeting with Ellis James or was planning a divorce. Every word that tripped spikily from her curt mouth had felt loaded of late. Every smile that didn’t reach her eyes potentially ushered in the end of life as he knew it. He shook his head, banishing the thought. ‘Dad’s being weird. Everyone’s gone AWOL. I don’t understand it,’ he said, scratching at the paintwork with his thumbnail. ‘One of my staff has disappeared without trace, too. What the hell is wrong with people?’

  ‘If you must know, Jonny’s just in the doldrums,’ Anjum said, cleaning her glasses on the pristine linen table cloth. Pushing them up her nose like a disapproving school teacher. ‘I spoke to Sandra the other day. She said he won’t get out of bed. He refuses to go to the doctor for anti-depressants. Mystery solved. I thought you’d know all this.’

  He screwed his face up. Felt stress register in his bowels. Tried to keep some civility in his voice though he felt the urge to punch the door. ‘Men don’t talk to each other about their feelings!’

  The unease grew inside Tariq. He found himself snapping at the kids in the car during the school run. Eventually, he made the decision to turn the car back towards home, rather than the factory. Pulled up outside Jonny’s place.

  Jonny came to the door, wearing only a bathrobe. Looked like he hadn’t slept or washed in days. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nice. Anjum’s very hostile and my dad’s being off with me.’

  ‘So? My daughter’s dead. What do you want me to do about it?’ Jonny’s breath smelled sour. His long stubble stuck out from his skin like a forest of angry thorns.

  ‘Let me in. We’ll talk.’

  ‘Sandra’s not here. She’s at the hairdresser’s.’

  ‘Eh? Since when did you need your wife as a bouncer? Stop being a turd. Are you going to let me in? Come on, man.’

  Following Jonny into the house, he stepped gingerly over the ghostly stain on the carpet in the hallway. Didn’t dare ask why the floor-covering had not yet been replaced.

  ‘Why don’t you get a shower and come into the office?’ Tariq asked, as Jonny flung his dishevelled bulk onto the leather sofa in the sleek, state-of-the-art kitchen. ‘You might feel better. You can’t be a recluse like this forever.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Jonny said, picking up a photo of Mia from the side table and clasping it to his chest.

  Tariq padded to the Gaggia machine and started to grind some beans. ‘Listen, man. I’m going to make you a nice coffee because I’m your mate. Then, I want you to get in the damn shower, because you smell like a camel’s arsehole. And then, we’re going to go into the office together. You’re going to ring round and ask about Lev.’

  Jonny gathered his robe around him, retying the knot. ‘Lev? What about the little shit?’ His puffy sleep-encrusted eyes darted from the photo of Mia to the coffee machine and back.

  ‘Well, have you seen him in the last fortnight? I haven’t personally clapped eyes on him since we did the raid on the O’Brien cannabis farm. Anjum reckons she’s seen him around in Cheetham, but it’s not like him to skive work. We need to bring him in. We can’t have staff unaccounted for. If we can’t plot their movements, we can’t trust them. And unless you hadn’t noticed, we’re a man down, with Smolensky in Israel. Now that O’Brien’s six feet under and nobody’s running the south side … now is our time! We need to seize it, rapidemente.’

  The smell of coffee wafted through the kitchen. Jonny sat up, raising an eyebrow. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve just been lying here, festering and feeling sorry for myself, when that would be the ultimate revenge.’ He smiled.

  Just as Tariq pondered that his business partner hadn’t said anything about the missing Leviticus Bell, the doorbell chimed.

  ‘You expecting a visit?’ Tariq asked, wondering if his father had returned home, spotted his car outside and come looking for him.

  Jonny pulled a gun from a drawer in a sideboard. Tucked it into his pants, beneath his dressing gown. When he returned, he bore a giant wreath of lilies, a blank expression and the pallor of the dead. In his hand, he clutched a gift card.

  ‘I thought Jews didn’t send the bereaved flowers,’ Tariq said.

  Jonny set the arrangement carefully on the leather sofa. His Adam’s apple pinged high in his neck.

  The hairs on Tariq’s arms stood on end. ‘What does it say?’ he asked, pointing to the card.

  Holding the card aloft, Jonny allowed him to read its contents.

  RIP, Boddlington scum.

  The King is dead. Long live the Queen.

  ‘Who sent it, for God’s sake?’ Tariq asked, his voice sounding thin and strangled.

  A disbelieving sickly smile crawled across Jonny’s unkempt face. A questioning tone in his voice. ‘Sheila bloody O’Brien?!’

  Chapter 55

  Sheila

  ‘You?’ Frank asked, a look of utter disbelief on his face, as Sheila finished telling him the news. He shifted his gaze blankly to the joiners who were busy about the club refit. Drills and saws buzzing as a backdrop to their conversation.

  But Sheila knew he’d heard her above their industrious noise.

  ‘Yep,’ she said, smiling. Savouring the feeling that she was at last mistress of her own destiny. ‘I’m taking over all of it. You can work with me in the club like you did with Paddy. Letting the dealers deal. Turning a blind eye. Taking a cut of the action. Or you can get on with your own thing and forget about me. I’ll still give you a generous percentage, if you like.’

  Frank blinked hard. Grimaced. Popped a chewing gum into his mouth. Chewed far too hard, judging by the clacking sound, audible even over the builders. He turned to Conky.

  ‘You alright with this?’

  Conky shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and shrugged. Smiled. An expression she had rarely seen the dour and serious-minded henchman wear. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Fuck it! It’s grand. I swore fealty to the O’Brien family when I came out of prison. Sheila’s head of the family now. I recognise that. We had a little … debate about it, the night of Paddy’s wake. But we’re all good now.’

  Sniffing hard, Frank inclined his head towards the renovation works. ‘As long as I’ve got my club, I don’t give a shit, me.’ Abruptly, he grabbed Sheila into a bear hug, holding the back of her head, burying his nose into her long hair. Planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘I never wanted what Paddy had, She,’ he said. ‘If you think you can make a go of it, good luck to you.’ He waved his hand in the air, describing the lofty, triple-height ceiling of his industrial, warehouse-sized temple to music and dance. ‘I only ever wanted this.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I’m carrying on for our Jack. It’s what he would have wanted.’ Stared down at his battered sneakers. ‘And Paddy’s gone. He can rot in hell for all I care. Now he’s gone, I feel like I’ve been set free.’ Faced Sheila with a suddenly sharp and unwavering gaze. ‘No disrespect to you or the girls, like.’

  Sheila patted his hand. ‘None taken, Frank. You’re always welcome in my house.’

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the car as Conky powered the stately new Rolls-Royce into life, Sheila checked her reflection in the sun visor mirror. Deemed herself attractive enough to be a supreme ruler of a criminal empire. Turned to her newly sworn-in ally. Sticking her chest out, pouting slightly. ‘That went better than expected,’ she said. Giggling coquettishly. Stroking his hand.

  He slid his sunglasses to the top of his head – improved with a new hair-piece that actually looked like hair – and regard
ed her with those intense, staring eyes. She could see a more sensitive soul beyond the hazel irises, ringed with milky white.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  She took his chin between her thumb and forefinger and pulled his face close to hers. Sexy-ugly. That’s what they called his type in magazines. The thrill of having found a new lover – a more thoughtful and giving paramour than Paddy could have ever dreamed of being – registered between her legs. She pressed her lips to his and kissed him, enjoying the taste of a man with whom she was chemically compatible. That much she had discovered on the night she had tried to shoot him, when their tussle had turned into something more erotically charged, sealed with a killer kiss. Conky McFadden loved her. Conky McFadden would never hurt her. Conky McFadden would do whatever she told him to do.

  ‘I feel amazing,’ she said, having broken away from his kiss. ‘I feel like I’ve got through the storm and everything’s been washed fresh and clean.’ Placed his hand on her breast, enjoying the warmth. ‘I’m glad you’re by my side.’

  ‘Good job you didn’t put that bullet in me, then,’ he said, chuckling. Sliding his glasses back down over his eyes. Removing his hand from her breast to caress her cheek.

  ‘I never would,’ she said. ‘I was just testing you.’

  ‘And did I pass?’

  She threw her head back and laughed, drinking in the smell of a brand new super-car and Conky’s aftershave. Savouring the scent of her newfound wealth and freedom.

  Outside, a mist of Mancunian rain fell softly on the grey streets, but a shaft of sunlight brightened the scene. There, at the end of the part-cobbled street that ran along the perimeter of the drab industrial estate, she spied a glorious double-bow rainbow.

  ‘With flying colours,’ she said.

  Chapter 56

  Katrina, then Paddy

  ‘Well, Kenneth Wainwright,’ Katrina said, patting the freckled hand as she took a seat by his bedside. ‘How’s life treating you on this fine Mancunian summer’s day?’ She grinned. Looked over towards the window where the incessant rain fell against the glass that was visible through the almost-closed curtains.

  Her patient reached for the cup of coffee on the table suspended above his adjustable bed. The liquid sloshed in the cup as his hand shook. He brought it to his lips, grimaced as he took a sip. Set it back down, spilling only the smallest quantity on the melamine. ‘I’ve got murderous bedsores, my stitches are itching and I look like shit. Other than that, my dear fragrant Sister …’ he treated her to a North Cheshire Cat’s grin. ‘Life is fucking fine and dandy. That’s quite a stunt you pulled there.’

  Katrina breathed in, closed her eyes and savoured the memory of her finest O’Brien moment …

  Making the sign of the cross on the dead man’s forehead, Katrina had pulled the sheet over him, so that she could no longer see his slack, wizened face and his unfocused eyes. It had been gruelling waiting for him to take his final breath. Hours and hours of mucus-filled rattling, as he had battled to the end, breathing in, breathing out, struggling to shuffle off his mortal coil. At long last, he had slipped away with a few final peaceful breaths.

  Taking out her mobile phone, Katrina had dialled the number.

  ‘Yes. It’s Sister Benedicta here from the Holy Trinity Nursing Home. I want you to send Doctor Williams. One of our residents has passed.’

  Already knowing the response she would be given, thanks to a little background research, Katrina had feigned surprise when the receptionist told her, ‘Sorry, Sister. I’m afraid Doctor Williams is on annual leave this week. We’ll have to send out the new locum who’s standing in. It’s a lady doctor. Doctor Hardcastle. She’s newly qualified.’

  ‘Really? But I want Doctor Williams. Not some wet-behind-the-ears upstart.’

  ‘Oh, this lady doctor locum is very nice. Very understanding.’

  Katrina had toyed with the hem of her skirt. Pitching her irritation just right. ‘I suppose she’ll have to do. Well, send her over as soon as you can. A swift burial is appropriate.’

  Making the call to the funeral director had been easy. He had already been briefed. Quick pickup. A death by natural causes after a long illness. No embalming. Closed casket. The account had already been settled upfront. Katrina had been at pains to explain that she would be choosing the coffin and that the nursing home would be paying out of its charity coffers. It wouldn’t be the first time she had done such a thing when one of the home’s less fortunate residents had passed on. Somebody had to care, right?

  When the doctor had arrived, Katrina had been pleased to see that she was a young woman with a kindly, unsuspecting face. Pregnant too. Good. Pregnant women were always more sympathetic.

  ‘It’s tragic, Doctor,’ she had said, tugging at her cardigan sleeves. Rearranging her features into something resembling forlorn. ‘He had such a fight towards the end, there.’

  Doctor Hardcastle had felt for the dead man’s pulse. Checked his extremities and read through the notes handed to her by Katrina.

  ‘He suffered from sclerosis of the liver?’ she had said, flicking through the paper on the clipboard. ‘And heart disease. Right?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. He’d been ill for some time. The nurses administered end of life care. He died fifty-seven minutes ago precisely. I was with him at the end.’

  The doctor had looked appraisingly at the corpse. ‘Aged sixty-one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And his name was Patrick O’Brien.’

  ‘Yes.’ Katrina had grimaced and nodded at the locum. ‘He had no family. If you give me the paperwork, I’ll go to the registry office to get the death certificate myself. Make the arrangements. That’s what we normally do for our homeless charity cases.’ She had wrung her hands and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Poor Patrick. At least he had the staff here for him at the end.’

  The doctor had smiled. ‘I can’t issue the paperwork, I’m afraid. I haven’t treated this gentleman so I’ve no way of confirming his identity.’

  ‘Are you questioning the veracity of what I’m telling you, Doctor Hardcastle? You do realise that I run a nursing home with one of the best CQC reports in the area?’

  ‘Oh, of course! I wasn’t meaning to—’

  ‘And that I’m a Sister. Do you know many lying nuns, Doctor? Would you deny this man, who suffered great indignity in life as a vagrant, a little dignity in a swift and simple funeral?’

  ‘No! Fine!’ The doctor had blushed, hooking her hair behind her ear. ‘So sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘Patrick O’Brien,’ Katrina repeated, as the doctor filled out her medical certification. ‘That’s right. O. Apostrophe. B. R. I. E. N. Yes. Thanks, dear.’

  Katrina had waved the locum off merrily, pocketing the evidence she had needed to erase her brother from the system. She had walked back through the nursing home, greeting her enthusiastic staff. Satisfied with her morning’s work. With a cursory glance in at the freshly dead body of alcoholic vagrant, Kenneth Wainwright, she had closed the door to his room and continued on to the adjacent room that bore no sign or indication of who its new occupant was.

  ‘It’s all done,’ she had said to her brother, whose eyes flickered gently open. ‘You’re officially dead, and the corpse of Kenneth Wainwright – one of my homeless residents whom nobody will miss – will be buried in a closed casket as Patrick O’Brien. But before the funeral director picks up the dead body, you – the new Kenneth Wainwright – are going to have to give one last performance as Paddy, because Sheila won’t believe you’re gone until she sees it with her own eyes.’

  She had produced a large wash-bag from a cupboard. ‘Preparation is everything,’ she had said, unzipping the bag and taking cosmetics out. Laying them carefully on the bed. Pale foundation. Talcum powder to seal it. Bluish eyeshadow.

  ‘Christ. I can’t believe it,’ he had said, his voice hoarse and cracked as befitted a man who hadn’t spoken for days. ‘I’m officially dead? I’m home and dry? Yo
u’re a fucking genius, our kid.’

  ‘I know, Patrick. You owe me. But less swearing! And definitely no blasphemy.’ She had snatched up the bottle of pale foundation and a makeup sponge. ‘Now, lie very, very still and look dead.’

  ‘I was right,’ the recovering Paddy said. ‘You are a fucking genius.’

  ‘Language!’ Katrina winked. ‘You know, you remind me so much of Dad.’ She tutted dramatically and rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll have to keep tabs on you!’ She wheezed a whisky-drinker’s laugh; a blush spreading through her pale cheeks to match the veins in her nose, which Paddy had not noticed before moving into the home and seeing more of her. There was certainly more to Sister Benedicta than met the eye.

  The airflow bed, designed to keep bedsores at bay, was overly hard and uncomfortable that morning. Paddy could smell his ostensibly healing body rotting with disuse. Despite daily bed-baths and being hoisted by the nursing staff into the communal tub once per week, he never felt clean. The abiding smell of his own putrefying skin and stale effluent that caked the lining of the adult diaper around the clock, no matter how frequently they changed him, clung to the inside of his nostrils. His wounds ached incessantly, requiring constant morphine, self-administered with a push button. But inside, in the strata of his body that lay deeper than the superficiality of stitches and scar tissue, Paddy felt rejuvenated and reinvigorated. He grasped his sister’s hand, though his grip was still weak. ‘I owe you,’ he said. ‘For what you’ve done. For giving me this opportunity.’

  Katrina pulled her hand away. Stood up, smoothing her A-line skirt down. She started to pour water from the drinks jug into a parched-looking vase of flowers that the nursing staff had bought for Kenneth, wishing him a speedy recovery.

  ‘And what are you going to do with this brand new beginning, Patrick? A clean sheet. An opportunity to reinvent yourself.’ She looked over the top of her bifocal glasses at him, like the well-meaning nun she appeared to be. ‘What’s it to be, kiddo?’